


Business Hours

by PinkAfroPuffs



Series: Cowardly Kings, Forgotten Heroes [5]
Category: Fate/Grand Order
Genre: Bread, F/M, Mutual Pining, THAT IS ALL., and not bread, idiots to lovers, this world is made of two things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-18 03:08:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29111304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PinkAfroPuffs/pseuds/PinkAfroPuffs
Summary: Her hands squished something. Uncooked dough. It was starting to flake. All those ingredients would be ruined in an instant because she was afraid. Afraid of starting it. Afraid of finishing it. Afraid of bread and other such things that are not like bread, but rise and fall like so, in the same way that bread and people are much the same.
Relationships: Romani Archaman/Fujimaru Ritsuka, Romani Archaman/Original Character(s)
Series: Cowardly Kings, Forgotten Heroes [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1731757
Comments: 5
Kudos: 16





	Business Hours

There is a certain kind of failure that cannot be expressed with words. 

“Flour, oil, sugar, eggs.”

A kind of disappointment that cannot be expressed with actions. 

“Where’s the yeast…” Ifumi mumbles, holding a text between her fingers. “Water. Right. Good. Now I can finally get started.” With one hand she beat the oil, yeast, and sugar together; with another, she grabbed the flour, humming to herself as her brows knit together in frustration over some unanswered feeling she dared not give birth to.

Some things can only be expressed in bread.

Bread.

Yeah. Bread. “Bread was always the answer.”

She never used a dough hook, though she probably should. Having carpal tunnel didn’t make bread-making any easier; the more flour in the mixture, the harder it would be to stir, to mix, to roll. But she needed to do this all by hand. Too much aggression in her own. Best to put them to work by doing something good. Something nourishing and fun. She’d even put on a fun, k-pop song in the background. 

_‘Choose only one of the two, yes or yes?’_

She tried not to think too hard about it. Yes, she’d just been imagining that they were flirting in the infirmary, then over lunch, and then again over the commons while she and Mash had been in Okeanos. In their little meetings, sometimes late at night, where she’d sneak in to see if he was still working. Mornings where he’d even bring her a cup of coffee. Not flirting. Easy. Never flirting. A simple mistake. Nothing to be mad about. Just making bread and working through her own feelings as her speaker blared beside her.

_‘Do you mean it? (Don’t guess)’_

She grit her teeth.

_‘Are you serious? (Don’t ask)’_

One hand paused. Had it been the fifth cup of flour, or the sixth? The dough wasn’t dry enough for it to be higher than six-

_‘Don’t give me that unsure side-to-side, I want a sure up-and-down-’_

She slammed her floured hand on the NEXT button. Actually, now that she thought about it, she was extremely angry. But not with Roman. With herself. 

….well. Maybe a little bit with Roman.

Ifumi leaned on the counter, floured hands against the stone as she inhaled the stale air around her, closing her eyes as she thought about it. It had been a long time since she’d be interested in someone, and it wasn’t as purposeful or obvious as some of her previous tries. Given that she wasn’t very good at starting relationships- her only ex had been the one to ask her on a date, and she’d fumbled out a ‘yes’- trying to maneuver into this one was tricky. 

...or she could stop trying to maneuver. If it was really this much trouble, it wasn’t worth it, right? She could just watch him from afar- being lovers wasn’t more important than being friends and vice versa, and as it seemed he had no one in the world but she and DaVinci as far as adult friends went, it wasn’t something she wanted to give up. Or, well. That he and DaVinci were _her_ only friends in the world right now (as Mash was very important to her but telling the young Demi-Servant about her own personal issues was a no-no). 

So. Bread it was. Bread it would be. And aloud she said, “Bread it is,” before turning the music back on.

* * *

“Master? Master.”

Bread, bread, bread. More bread. There were so many different types, and the staff and Servants would be fine if she made more, right? Definitely. So she didn’t have to stop, even though her hands were starting to feel like lead and she was on her third playlist. Or maybe she should make a cake. There were so many extra ingredients to use, and she could finally get creative-

“Master! This is no way to be treating your Tamamo!”

Ifumi paused. The delay in her senses was definitely not about the bread. “...did somebody just talk to me?” 

A rather annoyed, bikini-clad Tamamo-no-mae stared back at her, her hands crossed over her chest. Only a white t-shirt concealed what was underneath, and it only went down to her hips. “Do you need your ears cleaned?” And then, sweeter, “I can always-”

“Oh...Caster…” She rubbed her temples. “Sorry. I got a little caught up in-” What was she doing? What recipe was she on? 

“You know, I don’t think you should be going through all this trouble for one man,” she sighed. “I mean, there’s plenty of fish in the sea!” With one finger, she picked a particle of dough out of Ifumi’s hair. “And it’s Lancer. Lan-cer! Don’t you see the lance?”

A sigh escaped her. “This isn’t about him. It’s about me and trying to...figure out how to…” Hands thrown up in the air, exasperated. “...get over him.” And then, after a beat, Ifumi gestured with a little snap of her fingers and said, “And that’s an umbrella, not a lance.”

Tamamo seemed to outright ignore that observation and leaned back, arms still crossed over her chest. “Oh! So you were already trying to get over him...hm. Well, if you want to take my advice, sometimes _women_ -” this word she stretched out for its obvious intent, “- are better, but I guess the heart wants what the heart wants, even if they’re just a useless, skinny man who can’t get his feelings straight.”

Ifumi pursed her lips. For a little bit, her brain unclouded, and she looked at the divided spirit, who was smiling at her in the most benign way, one corner of her lips curling as though she knew she’d told a mean joke. Then, after she thought about it, the concept of talking about him gave her a bit of joy, and she said, “I can’t tell if you’re supporting me or not. What do you think about him?”

“Honestly?” Yellow irises blinked back at her, pink hair falling over her shoulders in waves as she shifted into a more casual position, one hand under her chin. “I think you can do better! _Much_ better.”

“Sure I can,” she admitted, “but he’s handsome, sweet, a doctor, easy to talk to-”

“Wait, wait, wait! A _doctor_! I didn’t know that was a qualifier!” Tamamo teased. Maybe it was that summer form, but she was more outright playful than she had been towards her as a Caster.

“It’s _not,_ but it helps his case,” she whispered. “You know, it’s hard to find a cute guy who looks good with long hair _and_ has a good paying job and career. It’s like hitting the jackpot! He’s not rude and even asks for my opinion on things and he’s not weird about personal space. Like...it’s just….” Ifumi sighed and waved an over-mitted hand. “He’s...a little…”

“Emotionally distant?” The smile dipped into a disapproving frown. “You want an emotionally distant worm of a man?”

“That’s my worst nightmare.” She admitted. “I promised myself not to do it. But Roman didn’t _seem_ …” She stared at her hands, covered in flour from the numerous breads and baked goods she’d made, hours of trying to healthily cope with her feelings instead of just talking them out. Another sigh escaped her. “Am _I?”_

Tamamo blinked at her. “Are you what?”

“Am I emotionally distant?”

A pause. Caster leaned a bit closer to her to study her face- which made Ifumi lean back, as Tamamo was too pretty to stare at straight on- before slowly closing her eyes and tilting her head to one side. “We wouldn’t be having this conversation if you were, would we?”

A wave of calm washed over her, her eyes closing as she considered those words. “...yeah. I guess you’re right.” She opted not to remind Tamamo that the door had been locked before her visit, and thought it best to push it to the back of her own mind. 

* * *

What is the price of a wish?

 _“I want to change_.” She’d said. It echoed on the walls and against the dark box she knew she was in.

Then why are you baking bread? Came the response.

_“...bread is good. I’ve never had this many ingredients before.”_

It’s too warm in here. You should stop all of this. It’s unhealthy.

“Why should I be healthy?” The words didn’t echo, nor did they sound dreamlike. Solid and unlike smoke, they cut the air with their finality. “When would I ever be healthy? How would I survive if I didn’t bake bread?”

_Who are you when you do not?_

Who was she?

What about being honest? Being forward and doing things with direct intentions? 

_“What are you so afraid of?”_

Dough. Mounds and mounds of dough, in a kitchen so pristine it could have never been her own- too expensive, too purposely designed. Her floured hands trailed the blue marble counters, trying to memorize the feel and color, wondering what part of her yearned for this.   
“Did I want blue marbled counters?” Did she? Did it matter?

_“What are you so afraid of?”_

Her hands squished something. Uncooked dough. It was starting to flake. All those ingredients would be ruined in an instant because she was afraid. Afraid of starting it. Afraid of finishing it. Afraid of bread and other such things that are not like bread, but rise and fall like so, in the same way that bread and people are much the same. 

It was definitely ready for the oven, right? It was time to put the bread in, let it bake, see if the fruits of her efforts were worth anything, or if her own despair and ineptitude had sunken into the loaves of fresh yeast and butter, ruining it at its core. 

Maybe she would smell burning. Maybe it _should_ burn. So she waited. Waited for the constraints of her perfection to pull her to the oven when it started smelling ripe. When it started to burn, to flake at the surface and turn pitch black like necrosis-

The fire alarm went off, but no sprinklers turned on.

Flames licked the back of her neck, smoke slamming against all of her senses, choking her from her throat to her stomach. Sweat. It was dark, too dark, and it was too hot. Was this what they called a forest fire? 

Maybe this was actually a shared dream. She’d been having a lot of those lately- a little traumatic experience here and there, an internalized hatred there- but never had it felt this real. The forest before her- the smoke billowing into the sky as sirens screamed in the foreground, somewhere far from her- colored the air in high pitched pinks and oranges that rivaled the sun setting. 

Panic seized her. It was her bread, wasn’t it? Her oven, her own bastardized sense of timing, her sick fascination with ruining something on purpose. This fire engulfing the entire forest was on her. Again. It was always her.

“I’m sorry!” She tried, mouth drier than sandpaper and twice as flammable. “I didn’t mean to-”

_Put it out!_

“Huh?”

_“Just put it out!”_

Her eyes shot open. Real fire alarms were going off in her ears, smoke before her eyes as they swam the fraction of a second before they adjusted to the blurry scene before her. Her glasses, where were her- no. Her contacts. Where were her contacts? 

“Ifumi! Ifumi, are you alright?!” 

Romani was standing over her now, dependable and handsome, his ponytail curling at the ends on his shoulder, and she felt extremely sorry for herself. This was exactly the man she was not ready to see. 

“The oven! Oh my goodness, the oven-” He hovered over her at first, barely touching, barely checking, but _just enough_ to know he was sure she was fine. As soon as he had, the doctor hastily darted past her and turned off the gas, grabbing a towel to fan away some of the smoke. Dazed, she only watched his figure from behind, remarking mentally that he had a pretty nice backside. Or maybe that was just his pants? Well. She’d resigned herself to never finding out, so what did it matter?

“The oven,” she remarked, slightly dazed. “Oh, I left something burning in the oven..!” Then she laughed and put her head down on the table, somewhat exhausted. She wasn’t sure why.

“What are you _doing_ down here this late?” It came out in such a whisper that she couldn’t find it accusatory. Eyes filled with worry, he sputtered, “And the oven- _What_ is all this bread here for?!” 

He was still wearing his gloves. Even this early- this late, she assumed- he was still guarded, still buttoned up, still close but not quite close enough to touch. Always the doctor, never the friend. The acquaintance you thought you were close to, but didn’t know a thing about. Like her. 

She blinked languidly at him, thinking, processing, contemplating his words to herself. Then, dumbly, she said, “To eat.”

His mouth opened, eyes taking in her appearance, probably intending to say something more severe than his hushed, “Have you been up all night?”

She blinked again. Bluntly, she answered, “Have you?”

“Again,” he rubbed the bridge of his nose in exasperation (as she’d said this several thousand times), “this is not about me.”

“Yes it is,” she corrected him, sighing sadly. “It’s all about you. Isn’t it?”

At this he paused. Green eyes darting away from her and back to the oven, he asked “What?”

“I said, it’s all about you, isn’t it?” Be it the adrenaline or lack of sleep, she found her mouth moving and that she was unable to stop it. “Everything lately. I’ve made it about you.” She sighed so deeply she sunk back into her chair. 

Eyes wide and lips parted, he blinked as though earnestly trying to _not_ understand what those words meant. In a very careful tone, he raised his hands to her in a peaceful gesture, extending his hands to seem more open, more calm than he obviously was. “I think you need to go to bed.”

“Then why are you up?” She shot back. “Am I the child here? Am I suddenly the only human? Why am I the only one who needs to sleep?”

Again, this rendered him speechless. “I don’t…” Shoulders slumping in defeat, he admitted, “I don’t...know how to deal with this right now.”

“I think you’re selling yourself short,” she hummed, absentmindedly reaching for one of the many breads on the table. 

A pitiable expression crossed his features; hours spent working or _dealing_ with things had clearly worn him down, made him look older than he was to her. Her eyes were swimming, and without her contacts she was simply nearsighted, so only his face stayed in focus while the rest of the room blurred into a white nothing. “Alright. How do you think I should deal with this?”

At this she paused. She could see him clearly, without squinting, and even though she knew she looked nuts, flour in her hair and hands cracked from washing them too much while baking, she said, “I think you should just kiss me and get it over with.”

His eyes widened, mouth opening in shock. His lips pressed into a thin line, somewhat reminiscent of a deer in headlights, hand covering his mouth as he turned away from her, his hair whipping away so fast it brushed his cheek. Was he bashful or ashamed? And who was he ashamed of? Her? Or himself? She shrugged it off as effortlessly as she could, riding that high until it was spent. If she was going to do this, now would be better than never. 

Never was old news. And Ifumi had changed. Or she hoped she had. “You can say no to me. You always can. But if you like me too, I’m not going to wait on you. There are things I want to do before I die, and I don’t like wasting my time.” She hoped- desperately hoped- that she didn’t sound harsh. But this was the beginning of her worst nightmare. “I can’t...spend my last days waiting on someone. Even if that person is you, Romani.”

Slowly, he turned his eyes to face her, green sparking beneath the strawberry blonde of his hair, his nose and lips covered by the white of his gloves. He seemed to be trying to say something. She wasn’t sure if it was time to give him that chance yet. It was too scary. Too early. Too embarrassing.

“I don’t like chasing men.” She continued. “I deserve to be chased. And if you won’t chase me, someone else will do it.” What a relief to hear those words aloud. What a relief to say them. She closed her eyes and relished it, relished her new-found respect for herself and said, “I don’t mind being friends. But you need to be honest with yourself, and with me.” 

Silence. He was still covering his mouth, eyes wide as he thought about it- and then calm seemed to overtake him, eyes closing as she heard a sigh. His hand slid just below his mouth. Through that hole, he breathed, “I don’t think...this is the time for something like that.”

Time. Something about it made her laugh. ‘This isn’t the time’ and ‘maybe later’ and ‘someday’ were the same thing. So she said, “Romani, there’s _never_ a good time.” 

And she believed it. She knew it. She was so _sure_ of such a thing that she said, “If you wait for ‘the right time’ you’ll miss it. There isn’t a right time. Just time.” Fiercely. With her chest. She had to say it, even if it was at the wrong ‘time’ and in a kitchen surrounded by bread and flour and dust and a stupid, skinny anxious man that she might be falling in love with. “I won’t wait for the right time anymore when that time is _now_.”

He inhaled very slowly, eyes closing again, a thoughtful expression crossing his handsome features. Then he said, “I-”

The door burst open, two shouts and then four of idle staff members (and some Servants, including Tamamo-no-Mae and Kiyohime), along with accusations and questions like, “What’s wrong” and “What happened” and “I didn’t start this fire so I wanted to see who would be framing me” (though only from Kiyohime) buried any reply Romani might have had in his throat. The two sat up straight- Ifumi, more relaxed- as the two Servants came to fuss over her before quickly escorting her out, leaving the staff to deal with the minimal damages.

For a long time, there were many questions. Some were about the numerous breads and baked goods on the table. Others were about the lateness of the night, and how everyone had too much to deal with already. One was about the burned bread, and how someone so responsible could have done such a silly thing in the first place.

Romani only buried his face in his hands.

**Author's Note:**

> I have a Romani and Ifumi playlist and one of the songs is Yes or Yes by Twice, mostly because my first thought was that Romani's problem is that he makes excuses instead of doing when it comes to himself. It's why he calls himself a coward- and why on some levels he's correct. 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this fic- it was quite a conundrum to make, but I think this is the way it should be, so far. Thanks for reading!


End file.
